AN: Thanks for your reviews!
The title for this chapter is taken from A. Tennyson's Crossing the Bar, but whilst there it means the transition from life to death, here it means the beginning of a new life.
Chapter 2. Crossing the Bar
Petunia was scribbling a letter.
Scratch, scratch, the biro moved and filled the silence with its sound.
In all her life, she had never thought this would go so far.
Keeping contact with her sister? All right, however much the thought depressed her, Lily had been her sister, and before the redhead's death Petunia had secretly dropped letters in the post box once a year to stiffly boast of her marriage and pregnancy, only to sneer when she received a reply from one of those nasty screeching birds, and then endure hours of Vernon's justified rants.
Scratch, scratch. The sound was getting furious.
Fostering her freakish sister's child? God forbid, but she had been forced into that sacrifice. Unwillingly, she had taken him under her roof, and given him food and clothing Vernon was working so hard to buy, and allowed him his schooling, and pounded sense into his freakish brain – by back-breaking chores and punishments, but still.
Scratch, scratch- snap! Her indignation was at fault when her hand slipped and crossed the sheet of expensive creamy paper, drawing a long line that went from the middle to the top.
Petunia pursed her lips. Her bony fingers clenched the biro as she slowly breathed out – a technique she had mastered in her youth when their parents bestowed another scrap more of love on Lily, not doing the same favour for her, and she had had to reign in her temper.
She was a master of her emotions now.
Or, more correctly, a master of not letting her emotions show.
The biro slipped out of her hand, but she didn't notice: fear, oily and unpleasant, swelled in her, filled her to the brim of her being, compelled her to cover her scrunched-up face and feel the shudders that were running down her spine like pests that sometimes infested her house.
"God, what have I done to deserve it?" she muttered into the palm of her hand, pressed so close to her face Petunia could catch the whiff of lavender hand cream.
The question was moot. No God had ever given her an answer before, and obviously wasn't going to do so now.
With Vernon at work, with all chores long done and redone, there wasn't much she could occupy herself with. Duddy was at school, and so was one of the abominations.
The other, the recently appeared one...
Petunia exhaled once more. It didn't help. The fear didn't leave her together with her breath, and the shivers didn't stop.
"What is it, Petunia?" a deceptively helpful and gentle voice asked. She refused to turn her head. "Do you need something? Another sheet of paper, maybe? This one looks a bit damaged to me."
She wanted to scream. Wanted to cry. Wanted to curse the hell she used to call her life.
She frowned at herself and did none of the foolishness above. Petunia Dursley refused to be intimidated by a little freak, and in her house, no less!
"I will take care of it myself," she said sharply, still not turning to the source of the voice. The freak was called- what was it, again? Bob? Ted? Something equally hideous and common. Ah, yes, Tom. The same name as the milk-boy's, and this repugnant being would be lucky to get even this sort of career, because no one would want that thing to work for them and generally be near them. "Why don't you return to your room? Or play outside. Boys like playing outside, just look at my Dudders. He spends all his time in the park or with his fiends- ah, he's such a wonderful, playful, friendly boy-"
Then again, she didn't want Dudley mixing with those two freaks. She would finish the damn letter, and they would be gone.
Forever gone. She loved the notion.
"Then do so." Footfalls and rustling clothes were followed by a handsome face that loomed into view moments later, when the thing took seat on the opposite of her, with only the table and the vase with artificial roses separating them. "I have been waiting for you to finish for too long. I want the letter written and sent. Now."
Petunia hated, hated that face. Too aristocratic, too manly beautiful, she wanted Dudders to have it, had always wanted a son with such a face and such a voice, but Vernon's genes had spoiled it all, and, to be fair, she had never had Lily's beauty and quiet grace, either. Maybe she wasn't fated to be special in anything, not in beauty, not in dignity. Just like she wasn't fated to have magic.
And so, she hated. It had become her refuge, this loathing.
"Who are you to tell me what to do, boy?" she bit out and suppressed the urge to smash the vase into the blank face.
"Your better, of course," the thing replied smugly, cocking its head to a side. "You may disagree, but you must acknowledge it, 'Aunt'. I am strong and magical, and you are weak and easily destroyed."
"Why do you know these things at all?" The words stumbled out of her mouth without her consent, but when they did, she realised she wanted to know the answer. This sort of mindset for a child for frightening and unnatural. Even for them, she believed. "You both are freaks, but the other boy is different. He doesn't have this cynicism. Where do you come from? Who are you?"
The thing's face was as nonchalant as ever, but a tempest of emotions was brewing in its irises, dangerous and al-consuming. Petunia counted it as victory. She was able to rile the freak up, after all.
"My name is Tom Riddle. This is all you have to know."
Petunia could smell the cold creeping into the kitchen, as biting as the one she felt in the frostiest days of winter, and for a second she imagined a breathtaking lattice of frostbite crawling over the table and the glass vase before shaking it off as her almost nonexistent imagination running wild.
The cold reminded her of the frostiest winter days. Of the times she needed to get a newspaper from the mail box or fetch some salt from her next-door neighbour and disregarded her outer wear in favour of speedily going out in her home dress, only to return freezing to the bone and covering her shivering shoulders with her bony hands.
Every time, she cursed herself for this small stupidity. Every winter, she continued doing it.
"Or maybe," Petunia nastily began, sneering at the thing, "this is all you know?"
In that moment, she felt it: the power.
And she gasped. And she couldn't breathe. And she needed to get rid of them soon, very soon, and to start re-writing that letter yet again so it could happen.
"You are still alive – your husband and your spawn, too – only because of Potter, you know," the thing started almost conversationally, but its spine was still stiff and ramrod-thin. "He would hate me if something unfortunate were to happen to your sorry existences. You must thank him for that."
"We've been giving him our food and clothing and roof-"
"Scraps from the table, the whale's castoffs, a cramped space to inhabit, and a miserable existence," the thing spat with utmost loathing. Its eyes were of a most alluring shape of claret, Petunia noticed with a shudder, where before she had tried to avoid looking at the abomination at all. "Don't sugar-coat it to quell your conscience!"
"How do you know this? And why do you care?" Petunia demanded to know. "You don't strike me as empathic, boy, and from what I've seen you don't even like the other one much. And still, you protect him and talk in his favour-"
The thing's lips bitterly hitched upwards.
"Because, my dear 'Aunt', I felt everything he felt." The laugh that burst out of the freak's chest flabbergasted Petunia. And frightened her. No human, no freak could let out such grating, ugly sounds. The madness stilled, and a calm tone overtook the atmosphere. "I was him, a neglected part of him. And now he is mine. I don't know much, but this is my conviction."
Petunia's eyes went wide and she drew back from such preposterous claims.
"I- Impossible!" she blurted out in frenzied worry, unwilling to believe in what the freak was spouting. "Mad, that's what you are, boy! This freak has always been alone; we would have noticed you, we've always been here and monitored him and-"
"If that was the case, and if indeed all this were my imagination running wild..." The freak's voice trailed off as this Riddle produced a vicious grin. "How come I know things that can utterly ruin your reputation and all you've been working so hard to achieve?"
Petunia paled. No, she didn't think they had done anything wrong – freaks were freaks, after all, and never turned out well, and should be stomped on like the pests they were – but their neighbours...
Yes, if some things got out, the neighbours might not agree with her and Vernon's decisions – close-minded and naive, those people were. They wouldn't understand that some things needed to be done, that sometimes covert disdain or outright violence were the way to go. They wouldn't understand what it was like living with a disgrace.
Yes, they would disagree.
The freak smirked and leaned over the table.
"Do you think they will admire your brave decision to take in a boy only to abuse him? Or clap in delight at the tales of your treatment of him, of the way you have allowed your son and husband to treat him, while you yourself stand by and watch, not uttering a word and silently agreeing-"
"I've never agreed with their ways!" Petunia shouted, losing her composure.
She wanted to refute the claim, to laugh it off and deny, deny, deny-
She couldn't. She had done all that, and more.
And she would do it again, if need be. Her hatred ran too deep, had held her hostage for so long that by now Petunia had developed Stockholm's Syndrome towards it, in love with this abhorrence of all things magic and freakish, to the point where she could not stop, could not ever hope to stop, and revelled in the feeling.
With every beating her sister's spawn took, her soul grew heavier, but her self-esteem grew bigger.
"-Or do you think they will condone the way you used him? A myriad of household chores, Petunia, really?" The thing's eyes narrowed and he was no longer saying but spitting the words. "You would have never completed those yourself, and all in a single day, no less! You made him forget himself in the endless housework, abused him like you would a slave, and never had the decency to pay him with even a kind word, not that those are much good. You have been treating him like faecal matter all these years. What is worse, you have convinced yourself that your attitude is justified."
"And what do you propose I had to do?" Petunia snapped and wrinkled the table cloth, her mouth a wry line splitting her face in two. "He was dumped on us! We never wanted him. I hated my freakish sister, and then, just because she got herself blown up out of the blue, we had to take him in and take care of him, and – good Heavens! – love him! Besides, I've never personally landed a single blow on him. So all your complaints are null and void and are simply the whingings of a child-"
"You are a wretched woman." The thing was calm – disgusted, certainly, but calm. Petunia frowned, then sneered. She didn't appreciate the insult. "I will leave aside the incidents of spatulas and heads – because, surely, the former had a mind of its own and hit Potter on its own accord – but I shall enlighten you as to the rest of your wrongdoings."
"Of which there's none."
"Let's start with all those moments when accidental magic came into play. For one, do you know that when a child is hungry and summons a piece of bread after a day of gardening, it is not a cause for shrieking and hitting him with a frying pan? Nor does it give you the justification to lock this hypothetical child in a cupboard for days. Reflect on that, if you will. Now, another moment-"
"Stop this!"
Petunia was pale and shaking. The hatred in her was strong, nursed by years of experiencing it towards her sister, but the conscience was not dormant either – and those two emotions were tearing her heart apart, both vicious and violent, both striving to win and disregarding her personal opinions.
But the freak continued, on and on, blabbering out all the secrets of her family, even reviving the guilt she had stomped on with the more cutting phrases and memories she had buried deep into her mind and had mourned.
All the times they Vernon had hit the freak, and she had allowed it to happen.
All the times Duddidums had bullied and threatened the freak, and she had allowed it to happen.
All the times she herself had blown up and vented her rage on the freak, and she had allowed it to happen.
All the times they had used the freak for preparing food and cleaning the house, and she had allowed it to happen.
All those instances flashed by in her head, in her heart, evoking the forgotten empathy, which rushed to help the battling conscience and outweigh the hatred, and the balance tipped in favour of the gentler side of her.
"I understand," she finally said.
A questioning silence dwelt in the kitchen for a moment, the frostbite ceased to matter.
"Come again?" The thing's voice was soft and dangerous. It caressed her like a black cat's soft paws which were pleasant right now, but could grow claws at any moment.
"I understand," she repeated, sounding stronger now. Oh no, the hatred had not ceased, never would – too late for that. Yet, she understood the reasoning behind the freak's feelings.
The creature's claret eyes narrowed as it sneered.
"You understand, but you refuse to change. This is why out of all your disgusting family you are the one I despise most. You see everything, realise what all your actions mean, but it never deters you. You are revolting."
"Yes, I am," the woman admitted past her pursed lips. "Still, I will try my best to ask that man to place you with someone else, someone more accepting of all this nonsense. Initially, I admit, I was prepared to throw you out of the house for good if the old freak wished you here still, but now I might reconsider."
"Good. This might save your life."
A brisk nod, and nothing more was said. Petunia returned to her letter.
He didn't know who he really was, nor did he know the reasons for his existence.
He was just... Tom. Tom Riddle.
A repellent, common name, the one he shared with plenty of Potter's classmates, and the milk-boy, and a couple of neighbours, and an acquaintance of Vernon's.
There was something else nagging at the back of his mind, something Tom thought he had to remember, but he couldn't, and so he angrily ignored the feeling and continued reading.
Attempted to continue reading.
The lines blurred before his eyes and merged together into incomprehensible clusters of words. For a second, Tom thought he was getting blind just like Potter, but then dismissed the thought: he was greater than that, he knew, and no blindness could overtake him.
Somehow, Tom was sure of his greatness.
And it relieved him, because he was sure of very few things.
He had been with Potter for the entirety of the other boy's life – all eight years of it. Or so he thought. He didn't remember Potter's early childhood, so maybe they had been together a bit less.
Tom had experienced everything Potter had experienced, had felt all that Potter had felt- And yet, his opinions were his own. Reflecting back on Potter's actions, he thought them foolish and childish and undignified: truly, what did such fickle emotion as love matter?
But Potter craved it, going as far as becoming a slavish skeleton with bruises at his relatives' beck and call, always listening to them, always compliant, always ready to please and to obey and to carry out orders, which Tom, in his present body and mindset, could not understand at all.
How could one person be so strong inside, surrounded with that delightful aura of magic that compelled Tom to lick his lips in deliriousness and move closer to Potter, so cunning – you had to see the originality that bubbled in the boy when he had to sneak out for food! – and so bright – countless of hours of hiding in the library aside, the boy had an analytical streak to him that ran deep and wide, and yet act so meek and pathetically eager to please.
Tom sneered. He was sure he had never been like this-
Yet again, who was he?
Sometimes, Tom thought he could see flashes.
A cave and children, two or three of them, wailing their eyes out in the darkness. They couldn't get out, so they shouted and raved, but it was moot – he had taken care of it-
A bunny. A cute little bunny, white-coated and loved. Hung by the wooden rafters. And there was a scrunched-up face of a boy, and Tom relished in it, because he had deserved it, for calling him a freak, for bullying him, for disparaging him-
A box now. Its contents were strewn across the bed on which he sat, caressing each item, because each had been a source of triumph to him. It didn't matter that the objects didn't have much worth – they were priceless to those who had slighted him, and he had enjoyed watching them tear up and cry-
There were many instances more.
Tom didn't catch the names and the details of locations, because those usually were blurry or not present at all, with fog in place of furniture and walls. His eyesight usually concentrated on certain objects, and even more frequently on emotions they inspired only. The deeds themselves didn't matter in the end. The triumph, the victory...
That did.
The name 'Albus Dumbledore' had also rung a bell, which was the reason Tom pushed the blasted woman to write that letter, aside from the nagging fact that the old man was the one to have dropped Potter and, consequently, him, in this hole of a place.
Anyway, Dumbledore was connected to another flash, this one even less comprehensive than the other ones.
A wardrobe on fire. Fear, fear, fear. All his possessions were there! How could he-
Like a mirage in an oasis, it was gone, and he blinked before realisation gave way to joy. It was real! Magic was real! And he was a wizard now, and no one would call him a freak anymore, and he would be with his kind and-
The flashes always cut off abruptly. Sometimes, they weren't even memories or scenes but notions, like that 'muggle' word or the major part of his vernacular, really. Sometimes, they were opinions. Sometimes, they were words of someone else echoing in his mind.
A chant of voices – My Lord! My Lord! My Lord! – crying out their exaltation endlessly was his favourite.
Tom heard a screeching sound. Peeking out of the whale's bedroom – he wouldn't spend a second in that tiny cupboard – he was met with the sight of Petunia, sneering and complaining, undoing the binding on a tawny owl's legs and taking a letter.
Silently, he waited until she finished reading, all pale with her hands trembling.
She chanced a glance up at him and nodded. Tom raised an eyebrow.
"He's coming. At six, when everyone is home."
Next chapter: Dumbledore. Also, it'll be completely in Harry's POV.
I wish to say that Tom's sudden appearance in Harry's life and their separation will not be disclosed for quite some time. It's connected to horcruxes, which is pretty obvious, but considering that neither of them will know what it is for some years, they will have only speculations. Also, I would like to point out that Tom's flashes of memories will not give him that big of an advantage in magical field.